


This is Halloween (quite literally)

by Nimueh



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is weak, First Kiss, Fluff, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-18 01:26:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimueh/pseuds/Nimueh
Summary: Armageddon has been left behind and Anathema is having a Halloween party.





	This is Halloween (quite literally)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bananaranana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananaranana/gifts).



> Brithday gift for my always and forever nerd :3

Despite being a demon, Crowley considers himself to be a reasonable man. Aziraphale, however, seems willing to test the limits on his reason too often. Take now, for instance; Aziraphale is standing at the backroom of the bookshop, holding a costume in one hand and pointing at it with the other one, a wide, honest smile across his face. The costume Crowley is looking at is, to put it mildly - horrifying. Or at least it is for Crowley’s standards. 

“Angel, what's-- _that_?” he asks while pointing lazily at the whole situation before him. And let's be honest, he asks because it’s the polite thing to do- not that demons are polite but this is, well, Aziraphale, and he cannot bring himself to be rude to him. The point is-- he asks and Aziraphale answers.

“It’s your costume” and shortly adds, as if to clarify “For Halloween”

Crowley looks truly shocked and his mouth does this thing that makes him look like a gaping fish. He was expecting that answer, of course, but somehow it still surprised him.

“I’m not putting that on” the way he says it, snorting out a laugh and furrowing his brow, indicates that he's adamant to his words - he’s not giving in. Aziraphale’s smile slightly fades - _the little bastard -_ and he’s actually pouting when he speaks again.

“Why not?”

_Why not? WHY NOT?_ Crowley takes a deep breath and looks at the costume again, expecting something has changed in the 30 seconds that have passed since the beginning of this conversation. It hasn't. It still is a big fluffy green lizard costume with red spikes that go from the top of its head to the bottom of its tail. It’s ridiculous. There is no way in heaven or hell he is wearing _that_. 

“Because I’m an occult force!” he protests “A demon. I’m- I’m the opposite of anything that is nice or- or cute or- OR FLUFFY!

When Crowley meets Aziraphale’s eyes, they’re open wide and gleaming. His free hand is now fiddling with the cuff on his sleeve. He looks-- He looks sad, and soft and-- and he absolutely knows what he’s doing. 

“Please?” he drawls the following words, completely intentional “For me?”

Crowley lets out a sigh. Okay, so maybe there _is_ a way. Big deal.

________________________________________________________________________

A finger snap miracles Aziraphale and Crowley right before Anathema’s door. After the incident - and this is how Aziraphale liked to refer to the almost-Armageddon, completely disregarding the raising eyebrow it got from Crowley - Aziraphale had wondered what would happen with Anathema and Newton. In they time they’d known each other he had grown to like them. To be fair, there are very few people in the world that Aziraphale doesn’t like, it’s kind of etched in his celestial nature; but now that the Apocalypse - with a capital A - has been postponed until further notice, the new prophecies have been successfully burned, and Anathema’s future - for once, is not written, Aziraphale was very happy to find out that she’s decided to stay in Tadfield. 

Newton opens the door in a classic Dracula costume- a black cape with the insides in red that goes all the way down to the floor, a set of fangs coming out of his mouth slightly scraping his bottom lip, and the usual trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth. Crowley would swear he was wearing eyeliner; it made his eyes pop in a really interesting way, bringing out all the blue and lighting up his face. He wonders how Aziraphale’s eyes would look with eyeliner, how it would frame that mixture of perfect shades contained in such a small space. Could Aziraphale’s eyes bear any more light? For his own health, Crowley doesn’t want to know.

“He--llo” he says, his eyes slide down Crowley’s figure and Newton represses a grin. 

“Don’t” Crowley says as he raises a warning finger.

Aziraphale, unaware of the exchange, greets him with a smile.

“Good evening, dear” Newton’s eyes rest on him now. He realises Aziraphale is dressed as a pumpkin. A big one. All round and orangey and- well, you know how a pumpkin looks like. “We brought--” he looks around and then he remembers. He forgot to bring the zombie-themed muffins, and by now they must be laying around somewhere in the bookshop “Oh, shoo--”

A tray filled to the brim with all-too-similar muffins magically appears in Crowley’s hands before Aziraphale finishes speaking. The angel looks a bit taken aback, but Crowley thinks that after having already given in with the costume, a small miracle won’t really make a difference. _It's just some paperwork, really_ his shoulders say as he shrugs them.

“Muffins!” Aziraphale resumes “We brought muffins”

_________________________________________________________________________

It’s a small Halloween party. There are just a few guests, and only some of them are strangers for Crowley and Aziraphale. Newton has asked them to keep the supernatural displays to themselves, if only for the night. Crowley’s only response was a shrug, and Aziraphale nodded in agreement.

Madame Tracy and Shadwell are on the other end of the living room, they’re chatting on the sofa while Newton walks around proudly announcing to every guest (really, every fucking guest) that he had been in charge of the decorations. Anathema had not yet made an appearance, but Newton had informed them that she had used her witchy skills to put together a few holiday-appropriate recipes. Madame Tracy spots them from where she's sitting and waves at them, signaling them to come over.

“Do we really have to go over there?” it comes out as a whine - because it is.

“Crowley, it’s a party!” Aziraphale says “What do you want to do, stay in a corner all night?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what I want to do!”

Aziraphale stares at him and it’s almost menacing. 

“I’m going over there to talk to _our_ friends, you- you can do what you want” 

Without waiting for an answer, Aziraphale turns away and walks towards Madame Tracy and Shadwell with a renovated smile.

“Okay. Fine” he throws his arms up and follows him, giving in for the second time today. He’s getting sloppy, letting _feelings_ get in the way of his demonic nature. He just wishes he cared.

The conversation with the freshly announced couple is rather superficial, or so Crowley thinks. He is not paying much attention. Just enough so he is able to notice when Shadwell brings up the topic of his very ridiculous costume and _how did Aziraphale convinced you to put that thing on?_ to what Madame Tracy adds _I couldn’t even get him to wear a pair of good old thorns!_

Crowley keeps glancing back and forth to his watch and then Aziraphale. He is immersed in the conversation, looking stunningly beautiful under the blue lights Newton has set. Here’s the thing- everything about Aziraphale is beautiful, that has already been established. Crowley needs to live with that fact every day for the rest of his eternal life, but it's okay because he has found a way to deal with how Aziraphale makes him feel - which, by the way, is quite unnatural for a demon. The problem is - right now, right fucking now, all these defenses Crowley has put up vanish. Aziraphale is beaming, actually beaming; he is so honestly happy it’s painful. His smile stretches out his whole face and it threatens to never leave. It takes Crowley everything he has to not grin like a goof himself. He’s a demon, the only thing he shares with humans is certain inclinations for music and a very useful and fairly tempting body. That's it- a body. Apart from that, he doesn't need to actually perform any of the biological needs related to said body- he doesn't need to sleep, he doesn't need to breath and he certainly doesn't need well-functioning organs to go on with his life. That’s why, when his heart skips a beat, he panics. It's not the first time it's happened, but thing is- it keeps happening, and it's always for Aziraphale. 

The mumble of a familiar voice brings him back to reality. 

“Sorry, what?”

Aziraphale frowns, Shadwell and Madame Tracy are no longer there with them. 

“Are you alright, dear?” 

He uses that gentle voice of his. Most would think that it’s inherent to his angelic essence, but Crowley’s spoken to Gabriel, and Michael, and many other angels, and they sound nothing like him. Words appear to linger in his tongue before they leave his mouth. Hearing him call him ‘dear’ feels like being tucked into bed and kissed in the forehead before going to sleep, it’s comforting, it’s _intimate_.

“Yeah, I jus- I just- I was- somewhere else”

Anathema’s hair hints behind the kitchen door before she makes his way out with a food tray in her hand. She instantly spots them and smiles, all too widely. Crowley tries to regain his composure before she catches up with them. She is just too perceptive, he can’t risk faltering in front of her. 

“Wow” she says, eyes fixated on Crowley “You look-- interesting”

Crowley raises a questioning eyebrow.

“I suggested he took off the sunglasses, but he wouldn’t listen” Aziraphale complains, back to his normal self.

“Have you not seen me? How is _this_ not listening to you?” he points at what he's wearing in disbelief. Aziraphale is about to say something when Anathema speaks again.

“I think they add to the costume, really” and she’s full on teasing now. “It’s like that meme of a plush duck holding a fake pocket knife, you know? A small fluffy thing trying to be menacing”

Crowley smiles in that fake way that all but says _I would snap you out of existence if it wouldn’t upset Aziraphale so much,_ and sips at his wine.

“Oh, isn't that just adorable?!” Aziraphale says “And so very you, dear” he nods as if to give his words emphasis, then directs his attention to Anathema with a mildly puzzled expression “But I’m afraid I'm not familiar with the term ‘meme’”

Anathema glances at Crowley, who finishes his wine in one go and rushes to speak “Ah n- no- no- y- you deal with that” and pointing to his empty glass says “I’m going to refill this”

He leaves them chatting, Anathema trying to convey the meaning of meme to an eternal being who is still getting his head around the existence of kindles. Crowley feels for her, but she brought that to herself and he _really_ needs a break.

_________________________________________________________________________

“I’m having a wonderful time” says Aziraphale as he enters the kitchen. Crowley has been refilling his drink for a little more than it’s expected, but Aziraphale hasn’t seemed to notice. He simply nods in response. It’s all being a bit overwhelming tonight- the people, Aziraphale, even the freaking decorations are bothering him. Oh God, he hates feeling like a teenager on prom night (he guesses that’s how he’s feeling according to every american film portrayal of adolescents and prom balls).

“What is going on with you?” Aziraphale says, and he’s both gentle and demanding. Only he could achieve that with such balance.

“Nothing” he says dismissively.

Aziraphale sighs. 

“Is it the costume?” he finally asks.

“Yes. No. I mean, it’s not just the costume. It’s- It’s- everything”

There it goes, that slightly disappointed look. It goes through him like a sharpened sword, piercing his skin, his lung, his heart, and even his non-existent soul. He never fails to disappoint Aziraphale, he always finds a way, even with something so irrelevant as a Halloween party. 

“I’m sorry you’re not having fun” he says.

“It’s not-”

“But it’s not fair” his tone is a bit worked up now “You always do this. You agree to something and then, when time comes, you behave like a child!” Aziraphale averts his eyes, he hates arguing “I simply don’t understand why you would come if you did not want to”

“Because I like you!” he blurts out all too matter-of-factly, like it's too obvious to even need saying. Aziraphale’s expression softens but he remains oblivious to the meaning those words bear.

“Oh, I like you too, Crowley” and he blushes a bit when he speaks. 

He can't be that _unaware_ , can he? He’s a fucking angel, he's divine, a superior being.

“Oh for God's sake, angel!”

Naming Her stings in his tongue, it always does, but when frustration comes over him he just can't think straight. _Straight-- that's funny._

Aziraphale stares blankly at him, partly confused by the sudden burst of anger. Though it's not anger, he perceives, not quite.

“I mean like you, _like you_ ” emphasis on those two words, hands gesturing in a undetermined manner “Romantic stylez”

_Great wording, mate._

“Oh” it's barely spoken, it's like a thought breathed into existence, and the way Aziraphale looks-- he looks heavenly; but also shocked, astounded, shaken up. He says nothing. _Abort mission, abort mission._ Now is Crowley who averts his eyes, he curses under his breath. Two fingers pressed on the bridge of his nose and he's shutting his eyes almost aggressively behind the sunglasses, avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze at all costs.

For a fleeting moment, the air that surrounds him shifts. It's so brief and subtle that no human would have noticed it. He can feel that Aziraphale is no longer at his side, the warmth the angel exudes has been displaced. Another shift in the air anticipates Aziraphale's hand reaching for his sunglasses just a second before he takes them off painstakingly, as if they were so delicate the smallest touch could shatter them. For a heart-stopping moment, Crowley forgets to breath - then remembers he doesn't actually need to breath and unsuccessfully attempts to put himself back together. His eyes are open now, the brightest shades of yellow contour his fairly dilated pupils. Aziraphale places the sunglasses carefully in the kitchen counter. Crowley fidgets with his hands and feels awfully self-conscious in that damn costume. He feels his chest rise and fall faster than usual, he’s heaving and there’s a lump in his throat that is compromising all types of communication. It's like being on the edge of a cliff. This is how dying must feel like. They stare at each other for what looks like an eternity before Aziraphale moves, and he does it in a non-Aziraphale way-- quickly, impulsively. He closes the distance between them and clashes their lips together. A rush of electricity goes over his whole body, and despite the initial urge, the kiss becomes soft, paced. It only lasts seconds but this kiss- this kiss it's built on centuries.

When Aziraphale pulls apart, Crowley needs a few seconds to process. 

“Angel?!” 

It’s all he's able to say, and it comes out as _what are you doing? Do you even know what this means?_

“I believe this is how humans communicate their feelings, is it not?”

Okay, so he knows. 

“B-But-- Wh- Wha--” there it is again, that gaping thing.

Aziraphale smiles softly.

“I like you too.” he says “Romantic stylez- as you put it”

“No, that's n-- that's not something people say. Don't-- say it”

Aziraphale’s fingers brush against Crowley’s. It sends a shiver up his spine, it feels right and terrifying. Their fingers lace and Crowley feels all this warmth being poured into him, enfolding him and making him feel-- _safe_.

“Do you want to go back home?” Aziraphale asks, so gentle, so understanding, so _him_.

“I guess we can stay a bit more” he says, and this time allows himself to smile “But I swear to Satan, if someone else mentions the costume...” It’s an empty threat. 

“Oh, I don't know. I think you look-” he pauses, as if considering his words “Appealing”

Crowley rises both his eyebrows, honestly surprised.

“Is that so?” he says.

Aziraphale looks down and blushes all the way to the top of his ears.

“You're a kinky bastard”

“I am not!” he complains, but loses all credibility by not meeting his eyes.

“Come on” his grin is full of amusement as he drags Aziraphale back to the living room where everyone is still partying like nothing’s happened. Like time hasn’t stopped only to be reset again. Like the purest, softest, most perfect angel hadn’t just kissed him and held his hand and- and- brought him back up, unmade his fall. Crowley feels like his heart is a size too big for his human body, it’s pressing on his chest, full on beating. Crowley thinks that if this is how it feels to sense love, to _be loved_ , it's as fulfilling as unbearable. He hopes, he _prays_ it never goes away.


End file.
